This little episode happened at a typical English primary school back in 1986. There were about a dozen witnesses, all eight-year-olds, but none of them ever mentioned a word about it. The story never hit the rumour mill. Even the parents, who probably found out the details later, didnt make a fuss or go marching up to the staff room. Absolutely no one did.
I heard about it from the teacher herself, who carried the memory for years with a pang of guilt. It seems she still winced when she thought about the way shed handled things with one particular pupil.
Honestly, it was a rather uncomfortable situation. Im still not sure how I feel about it, to be frank.
Ill be curious to read your thoughts
A newly minted Year Three teacher had just arrived from teacher training college, posted by her local authority to a dull little town somewhere up North lets call it Nuneaton, for the sake of the story. She was practically still a girl herself, twenty-two, not a hint of real experience just a burning ambition to, for once in her life, have her own class and show the world both her professional chops and upstanding morals.
Credit where its due, she was doing a rather good job. Her batch of pupils were the leftovers from a parallel gifted and talented class, but their marks were pleasing both parents and the headmaster. Discipline? There were a few sticky moments, as there always are with a herd of thirty-five, but nothing to make the staffroom tea go cold.
Of course, therell always be a couple of characters keen to put a rookie teacher through her paces. Our teacher lets call her Miss Ellen Barker had a sprinkling of those too. She managed to win most of them over, even getting the troublemakers involved in class projects and the Christmas panto. All except for one
Robbie Fletcher came from a single-parent family. His mum hardly bothered with him: if he was fed, that was considered a parenting win. So Robbie grew up rather like a stinging nettle behind the shed wild, surly, and utterly uninterested in getting along with anyone.
Despite her best efforts to befriend Robbie, Miss Barker got nowhere. If he wasnt slouching under his desk pulling faces at classmates, he was swearing loud enough to set the windows trembling. He hurled the sort of insults thatd make a docker blush, especially at the girls, who often ended up in tears. And out in the playground, hed brazenly light up roll-ups habits not even the biggest Year Six lads dared to flaunt.
If anyone tried to tell him off, Robbie would square his skinny shoulders and bark out, Yeah? What are you going to do about it?
But the worst was his habit of spitting.
There wasnt a child in the class who hadnt been on the receiving end of one of Robbies missiles. Hed collect a mouthful of spit and, with considerable gusto, hock it at his chosen victim. Repulsive doesnt even cover it.
No matter how many talks Miss Barker had with him (Honestly, Robbie, thats not nice; nobody wants to be spat at!), nothing changed. If anything, he upped his game.
Fresh out of ideas, she finally approached Robbies mum something she usually avoided at all costs.
Please have a word with him. Hes spit on all the others. Im starting to fear for my own safety! she half-joked.
Robbies mum promised shed handle it, which, in her case, meant a proper telling-off with a wooden spoon. Robbie appeared at school the next morning, black and blue, glaring daggers at everyone.
That day, he graduated to spitting in the corridor during break initially on the sly, then brazenly right in front of everyone. He cackled with glee as bigger boys scowled and smaller children welled up. No one could work out why he was picking on the older kids, considering he was a scrawny blighter himself. Self-preservation? Not his strong suit.
The bigger lads caught him more than once, gave him a taste of his own medicine (the less said on the details, the better), and warned him off. Robbie would just dash twenty yards away and shower them with fresh insults for good measure.
He was, in short, a one-boy plague for the whole of Year Three.
The absolute peak of his career was one memorable lunchtime, when he managed to spit squarely onto the head of the geography teacher, Mrs. Mason universally adored by every pupil in the school. Robbie had clambered up on a windowsill, raining down gobbets on passersby. Mrs. Mason mustve blended in with the sixth-formers (terrific for her ego, awful timing for her dignity). She hardly noticed, but the Year Ten kids saw and delivered poetic justice. Robbie ended up in the nurses office.
Miss Barker, this cant end well, the school nurse warned her, as the troublemaker legged it back to class. Something has to give.
Im all out of ideas it only seems to make him worse, the teacher sighed.
Some kids only understand their own language, mused the nurse.
Whats that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to spit at him so he gets the hint? Miss Barker bristled, frustrated with just about everyone and everything.
The conversation ended, but the thought lodged firmly in her mind.
Robbie kept his head down after that, but not for long.
One day, a girl named Charlotte was celebrating her birthday. She brought a tin of Cadburys Roses to share. The class was in a festive mood, and even Miss Barker joined in singing Happy Birthday. Robbie, ever the charming rogue, spat smack in Charlottes face. She burst into tears naturally while Robbie stood there, defiant as ever.
Miss Barker snapped.
She summoned Robbie to the front, locked the classroom door, and fixed her icy gaze on the jittery, wide-eyed kids. If Robbie has ever spat on you, please stand up, she instructed.
Just about everyone rose to their feet.
Weve said again and again how awful this is, but he clearly doesnt get it. Maybe this time, we need to speak his language.
Over thirty pairs of nervous eyes watched her.
I am allowing you, just this once, to do something none of you would ever dream of. Civilised people dont do this. But I dont know what else to try. I want each of you to spit at Robbie, just once, so he knows how it feels.
Silently, the children filed towards their tormentor. Robbie bolted for the door, then realised it was locked. His peers cornered him by the sinks and, one by one, spat at him some with dramatic satisfaction, others reluctantly, with apologetic glances to the ceiling. It wasnt rowdy or funny; it was grimly methodical. Throughout, only the sound of Robbies high-pitched whimpering broke the silence.
When the children sat back down, it was hard to look at Robbie, huddled on the floor, head buried in his knees, while tears streaked through the sticky mess.
Miss Barker let the silence hang.
I dont know about you, but I feel ashamed. For myself, for Robbie, for the lot of us. Remember this day, and dont ever humiliate another person, with words or actions. Youve seen where it leads.
She flung the door open. Robbie dashed out.
Im not going to say this must stay our secret. Im sure you know that already, she whispered, then dismissed the class.
Robbie was gone for the rest of the day, and didnt show up the following morning either.
Miss Barker, bracing herself for fireworks from Robbies mother, paid their flat a visit. Mum hadnt a clue what had happened.
Hes just not himself keeps blubbing and refuses to go to school.
May I speak to him? Miss Barker asked.
She was shown in. Robbie was hidden under the duvet.
I know its humiliating, she gently said, putting a hand on his head. And youre probably scared that everyones going to laugh at you now.
Robbie said nothing.
But youre not a coward, are you? Maybe some will laugh, but theyre not going to eat you alive.
Only silence.
How about we move you to another class? Maybe theyll enjoy being spat on.
Instantly, Robbies head shot out, eyes blazing. I swear, Ill never spit again! Dont move me
Good. The kids are worried about you and miss you at school.
He lowered his head.
Miss Barker ruffled his hair and got up. See you tomorrow, then!
See you tomorrow, he whispered.
And so, when Robbie returned to class, everyone acted as if nothing at all had happened.
Nobody in that class ever spat at anyone again.
Years later, the teachers observed that the group had grown unusually close-knit.
Its as though theyve got some great secret binding them, joked one. Or maybe theyre just an oddly well-adjusted lot!
Miss Barker? Well, she transferred to another school in another town not long after waving her first cohort off to comprehensive, and never returned.
For years, she fretted about the incident, convinced shed left some sort of psychological scar.
Eventually, at my nudging, she did a bit of detective work: it turned out that when Robbie was in Year Six his mum married a retired army officer, who got him into a military academy. Robbie now Robert is pushing forty-five, and rumour has it, hes both an officer and a gentleman.
He still keeps in touch with old classmates and visits the old town every now and then.
And at every reunion, oddly enough, no one ever mentions the great redemption of Robert Fletcher. Not even in jest. Apparently, no one remembers. Or perhaps they just prefer to keep it that way.
