“Id be happy to take your little girl into my class, if you dont mind,” said the teacher who had overheard the conversation between my mum, the headmaster, and another teacher.
The other teacher, the one Mum had been trying to get me placed with, absolutely refused to have me.
“But shell be struggling in your classshe cant read, cant even put letters together into syllables,” came her argument. “And where have you ever seen a child like that in the top set?”
She wasnt wrong. I couldnt read or write, and Mum couldnt teach me because I had no interest in sitting with a primer during summer holidays. All I wanted was to play outside. “Youre out from dawn till dusk,” Mum would say. But I just wanted to explore every corner of our estate, climb every treeand that took more than just daylight.
Yet Miss Eleanor must have seen something in me. Thats how I ended up in the second set. My behaviour was dreadful, but I excelled in lessons. She made everything so easy and interesting, as if she knew just how to reach every child.
How we adored her! By Year 5, our class had no strugglersnot even average marks, just top grades. There was no other way with Miss Eleanor.
She was already retired by the time we left primary school. Shed never married, never had children of her ownjust devoted her life to teaching.
Weekends at her house were a treat. Fresh flowers always filled the rooms, alongside bowls of sweets, rare luxuries back then. Often, wed find former pupils visiting, staying to share stories of school trips and adventures. Wed listen, dreaming of the day wed return to do the same.
Her three-bedroom house, left to her by her parents, was simply furnished but full of charm. Every shelf held trinketsgifts from pupils or things shed made herself. One room was nothing but books, floor to ceiling, with a cosy armchair nestled among them.
Thats where shed sit, while we gathered like chicks at her feet on the soft rug. Shed pick a book and read to us, then wed chatter about it for hours. She introduced us to artists, poets, composers, playing records that pulled us into worlds of art.
At the start of each season, our class would take easels to the park near her house. There, in the quiet, wed paint what we sawor felt. Only in winter did we stay indoors, sketching the frosted park through her window. Her own paintings were breathtaking; shed gift them to us after. We played draughts, and the winner always got a prize.
Even after secondary school, wed visit. She taught a few more classes before retiringthough not to rest. She tutored from home instead.
Miss Eleanor passed at eighty, sitting in her favourite chair with a book in hand, eyes closed as if asleep. One of her pupils, Catherine, a doctor in her forties, had stopped by after her shift and found her.
Id never seen so many people cry at a funeral, nor so many flowers. Words poured out about herhow she remembered every pupil, never needing authority because respect came naturally.
As one of her students said, “Miss Eleanor wasnt just a teacher. She was our first guide into a world of curiosity and kindness. She showed us how beautiful and strange life could be.”
