This all unfolded at a proper English primary school back in 1986. Eyewitnessesnamely, a crowd of eight-year-oldsnever breathed a word, so the whole debacle remained off the radar. Not even the parents, who very likely caught wind of the incident, ever raised a fuss with the teacher. No one did, as it happens.
The only reason Im in the know is because the teacher herselflets call her Miss Margaret Thompsonconfessed the story to me ages later. It plagued her all her life; a constant gnawing guilt over what shed done to a certain pupil.
And to be fair, it was a rather unsavoury affair. Frankly, Im still not quite sure how to feel about it.
So, picture this: fresh out of teacher training, twenty-two-year-old Miss Thompson was sent to a modest Midlands market town. Barely out of her own teens, not a shred of classroom experience, but dead set on proving her mettle, both as a teacher and a proper human being.
It must be said, she was doing rather well, considering her pupils had survived a thorough sorting process (the school ran a gifted class parallel to hers). Their grades had parents and the headteacher beaming, and not even a whiff of a discipline crisis.
Naturally, out of thirty-five kids, there were a few who tested her patience. Miss Thompson handled them deftly; she intrigued them, drew them into the life of the school. Everyone was brought onboardexcept for one.
That was Robbie. Robbie came from a single-parent home. His mum didnt fussshe saw to it he ate, and that was about it. He was growing up like a patch of grass in a car park: wild, stubborn, and not the least bit interested in speaking to other children, let alone adults.
Miss Thompson tried everything to win over Robbie, but it was hopeless. The boy made a game of being difficult. Hed spend entire lessons under the desk, pulling faces at the others until everyone exploded with laughter. Swore like a dockerloudly, for maximum effectbrandishing insults until classmates, especially the girls, were in floods of tears. He even started smoking out by the bike shedssomething not even the older lads dared.
If anyone told him off, Robbie would square up and cheerfully query, So what are you going to do about it, then?
But by far the worst habit was his spitting.
There wasn’t a child in that class who hadn’t been on the receiving end at least once.
And he made a tremendous show of it: gathering as much spit as possible and launching it with gleeful precision at his next unsuspecting victim.
Unpleasant doesnt begin to cover it.
Miss Thompson tried reason, scolding, gentle persuasionall just seemed to egg him on. The more she objected, the further he doubled down.
Eventually, Miss Thompson made the rare decision to call in his mum. Normally, she didnt bother the parents with classroom scuffles, but she was at her wits end.
Would you have a word with Robbie, please? He wont listen to me. Hes spat on nearly everyone. Im starting to fear Im next.
Robbies mum, taking a rather old-school approach, promised shed sort him outwith a poker, no less. The next day, Robbie turned up bearing a collection of new colourful bruises and a simmering look of hatred.
That very afternoon, he expanded his operations, spitting on other children in the corridor during break. He started in stealth mode, then moved on to outright assaults.
He seemed positively to thrive on torment, grinning as his victims recoiled or dissolved in helpless tears. Why he picked on the older students was anyones guess, considering he was pocket-sized and scrappyhe mustve completely lost his self-preservation instincts.
The older boys nabbed him more than once, gave him a decent wallop, warned him off, and then let him goat which, Robbie would scamper off twenty metres and unleash a slew of juicy swear words over his shoulder.
In a nutshell: he drove Year 2 mad. His pièce de résistance? A particularly juicy gob on the head of the schools beloved geography teacher. Our little hero had perched himself halfway up the main staircase and fired off greetings at whoever crossed below. Apparently, he mistook Ms. Evans for a sixth-former.
Ms. Evans was none the wiser, but a gaggle of Year 11s had clear sight of what happened. They filled her in, found Robbie, and walloped him so soundly he had to be sent to the nurse.
Margaret, this is bound to end badly one day, the school nurse, Mrs. Abernathy, murmured after Robbie scarpered. Youve got to do something.
Ive tried everythinghe just gets more vile the more I do.
Boys like thatMrs. Abernathy looked thoughtfulonly understand their own kind of language.
So what, Miss Thompson snapped, a bit sharper than intended, am I supposed to spit back at him until he gets the message?
I couldnt say
And thus ended the conversation, but the suggestion stuck in Miss Thompsons mind like a stubborn cold.
For a peaceful week or so, Robbie lay low, licking his wounds. Then, right back to form.
On one girls birthday, she brought in posh chocolates, which everyone (including Miss Thompson) oohed and aahed over. Robbies cameo? He spat right in the birthday girls face. The poor child dissolved; Robbie stood beaming, and stared at Miss Thompson as if to say, And what exactly are you going to do about it?
That was it. Miss Thompson snapped.
She called Robbie up the front. Silently, she locked the classroom door, glared round at her suddenly stone-silent pupils, and said, Stand up if Robbie has spat at you at least once.
Practically the entire class stood.
Weve told him over and over how disgusting this is, and he just wont listen. Clearly, he doesnt understand. So, heres the plan. For once, Im giving you permission to do something utterly vilesomething well-brought-up children never do. But we simply have no choice. Each of you is going to come up here and spit at Robbiejust once. If he cant understand why its so revolting, perhaps this will get through.
A wave of silent, determined children advanced. Robbie ran for the door, forgetting it was locked. The others neatly boxed him into a corner near the sink and began the process with business-like efficiency. Some did so with relish, a few delivered only a token, embarrassed effort. Still, nearly everyone took part, one group after another, all in grim, total silence.
Only the wet little squeaks of Robbie could be heard.
When all were back in their seats, it was a miserable sight. Say what you like, but someone spat on by thirty children does not look well.
Robbie sat on the floor, arms around his head, eyes downcast. No need to lookeveryone could see the rivers of tears mingling on his face.
Miss Thompson surveyed her class for a long, hard moment. The silence fairly vibrated.
I dont know about you, she said, but I feel ashamed. Ashamed of myself, him, all of us.
No one met her gaze.
Remember this day, she continued. Dont ever humiliate anyone else, with your words or your actions. Youve all seen what comes of it.
She strode to the door and flung it wide. Robbie shot out, half doubled over.
I wont say this has to be our secret, Miss Thompson finished, quietly. I trust you know that already. Off you go.
Robbie vanished until hometime. He didnt show up the next morning either.
Miss Thompson went round to his house. She braced herself for an unpleasant row with his mum, but Robbies mother seemed clueless.
Hes not himself, she said, guiltily. Wont stop sobbing. Refuses to go to school.
Id like a word with him, if you dont mind.
She gestured for Margaret to come in.
Robbie, on sight, buried himself under the duvet.
I get it, said Miss Thompson, gently patting his head. Youre angryand scared. Convinced everyones going to laugh at you now. Youre not the cowardly type, though, are you? They might laugh for a bit, but no ones going to kill you.
He said nothing.
I could have you moved to another class, you know. Maybe the kids there will enjoy being spat at.
Robbie shot bolt upright, eyes wild.
Ill never spit again! he shrieked. Please dont move me
Excellent. Your mates were starting to worry youd gone missing altogether.
Robbie dipped his head, but didnt answer.
Miss Thompson ruffled his hair and got up.
All right, thensee you tomorrow.
See you tomorrow, echoed the boy, quietly.
When Robbie finally showed his face at school, everyone behaved as if nothing had ever happened.
And, you know, never again did a single pupil spit in that room.
Later on, in secondary school, teachers would all remark what an unusually close-knit bunch that class was.
Its as if theyve been through something together, some would say.
Or maybe, others would quip, theyre united by a dark secret!thinking themselves terribly witty.
What Miss Thompson might have added, had she not moved to a different town and gone on teaching elsewhere, well never know.
Years on, that dreadful scene haunted her: guilt and worry that one rash act mightve left a scar on all those young minds.
When she finally shared her story with me, I suggested she see what became of Robbie and, perhaps, put herself at ease.
And she did.
Turns out, by Year 6, Robbies mum remarrieda retired major, if you pleasewho promptly whisked Robbie into a military school. Helped him get in, set him straight.
Now, the erstwhile terror is about forty-five, a career officer, and still in touch with many of his school chums. Hes even been back to visit the old town.
And as for that infamous day? At class reunions, no one mentions it. Not even for a giggle. Apparently theyve all forgotten. Or at least, they pretend to.
