**The Teacher We All Hated**
Miss Hardcastle was the terror of St. Georges Technical Secondary. We were all afraid of her. She was the kind of teacher whod scold you for being a minute late, dock marks for wrinkled uniforms, never smiled, and seemed to take pleasure in failing students.
In Year 9, I was the unofficial leader of those who hated her. I organised the complaints, the cruel nicknames, the mean pranks. We called her The Witch and fantasised about revenge for every humiliation shed put us through.
Everything changed one rainy Friday in November.
Id skipped school to go shopping with mates in Manchester city centre. On the bus home, I spotted something strangeMiss Hardcastle leaving a pharmacy in a rough part of town, arms full of bags.
Curiosity got the better of me. I got off at the next stop and followed at a distance.
She disappeared into a run-down council flat. I waited, then crept closer. Through an open window, I heard voices.
“Miss, thank you for coming. Emilys been feverish for days.”
“Dont worry, Mrs. Taylor. Ive brought the antibiotics the doctor prescribed.”
Emily Taylor? She was a girl from my classquiet, always tired, missing half the time.
“How much do I owe you, Miss?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Taylor. Weve talked about this.”
“But its so expensive”
“Emily is a brilliant student. She deserves to be healthy enough to keep learning.”
I peeked inside and saw Miss Hardcastlestern, unyieldingstroking Emilys forehead with a tenderness Id never seen in class.
“Hows your maths coming along, love?”
“Alright, Miss. Ive been working through the extra problems you gave me.”
“Good. On Monday, Ill bring some books to help with your A-level prep.”
“But Miss, I dont think I can go to sixth form. Mum needs me to work”
“Emily, your job right now is to study. The rest is my concern.”
I left feeling rattled. This wasnt the Miss Hardcastle I knew.
The next week, I watched her differently. Noticed things Id missed before.
When Liam fell asleep at his desk, she didnt shout like she wouldve with the rest of usjust touched his shoulder gently. Later, I learned he worked nights at a garage to help his family.
When Sophie forgot her homework, she got a quiet second chance. Turned out Sophie looked after three younger siblings while her mum worked shifts.
One afternoon, I stayed behind.
“Miss, can I ask you something?”
“What is it, James?”
“Why are you softer with some of us?”
She paused, stacking papers.
“How do you mean?”
“You go easier on them. But with me and the others, youre stricter.”
“Sit down, James.”
I perched on a front-row chair, uneasy.
“Do you know what makes you different from Emily Taylor?”
“No.”
“You have parents who buy your school supplies, pay for tutors if you need them, push you to do well. Emily doesnt.”
“Thats not my fault.”
“No, it isnt. But it is your responsibility to make the most of it. When Im hard on you, its because I know you can do better. When Im kind to Emily, its because shes already giving everything shes got.”
“Do you buy medicine for students?”
Her gaze sharpened.
“You followed me?”
I nodded, ashamed.
“James, some of my pupils come to school hungry. Some work nights to keep the lights on. Some raise siblings because no one else will. If I can help them stay in education, I will.”
“With your own money?”
“With my own money.”
“Why?”
“Because I grew up like them. A teacher once bought me my first A-level textbooks. Without her, Id never have made it to university.”
My throat tightened.
“But Misswhy are you so tough on us?”
“Because life will be. If I dont push you now, who will? Your parents will always cushion your falls. Im the only one wholl tell you the truththe world wont hand you anything.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“James, youre bright but lazy. You waste time joking instead of working. Know why that angers me?”
“Why?”
“Because youre squandering chances Emily would kill for. She studies by candlelight when the electrics cut off. And she still outdoes you.”
I felt like dirt.
“Can I help somehow?”
“You truly want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then work. Be the student youre capable of being. And if you want to do morehelp your classmates who need it.”
I walked out that day seeing everything differently. Miss Hardcastle wasnt the villain Id painted her as. She was a woman who carried fifty families worries, spent her salary on kids who werent hersharsh with some to prepare them, gentle with others to protect them.
I started studying properly. Ran revision groups for struggling classmates. Stopped the disruptive jokes.
At the end of Year 11, when she handed me my GCSE results (all As and Bs), Miss Hardcastle smiled. First time Id ever seen it.
“Well done, James. I knew you had it in you.”
“Miss thanks for never giving up on me.”
“I never give up on my pupils. Even when they give up on me.”
Years later, after graduating uni with first-class honours, I went back. She was still there, still strict, still buying textbooks and medicine for those who needed it.
“Miss, I wanted to thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for, James. You did the work.”
“I do. You taught me that high standards are a kind of love. Sometimes the people who care most are the least indulgent.”
Now I lecture at a university. When I have to be firm with my students, I think of Miss Hardcastlehow toughness can be tenderness in disguise, how demanding excellence means believing in someones potential.
My students probably hate me as much as I hated her. But I hope one day, like me, theyll realise the strictest teachers are often the ones who care the most.
