**Diary Entry 12th May**
“Id be happy to take your girl into my class, if you dont mind,” said Mrs. Thompson, who had overheard the conversation between my mum, the headmaster, and another teacher.
The other teacherthe one whose class Mum had been trying to get me intoflat-out refused to have me.
“Shed barely scrape by in your class. She cant even read, doesnt know her letters properly,” the woman argued. “Since when do A-stream classes have children who struggle?”
She wasnt wrong. I couldnt read or write, and Mum didnt have the time to teach menot when Id rather be outside climbing trees or exploring every corner of our neighbourhood. “From dawn till dusk, youre out there,” Mum would sigh. But there was too much to discover, too many adventures to be had.
Yet Mrs. Thompson must have seen something in me that day. Thats how I ended up in the B-stream class. My behaviour was dreadful, but I excelled in lessons. She had a knack for making learning feel effortless, for knowing just how to reach each child.
We adored her. By Year 5, our class didnt have a single pupil below top marksnot one. With Mrs. Thompson, there was no other way.
She was already retired by the time we left primary school. Never married, no children of her ownjust a lifetime spent teaching.
Weekends at her house were something special. Fresh flowers always filled the rooms, along with jars of sweets (a rare treat back then). Often, former pupils would drop by, joining us with stories of school trips and mischief from years past. Wed listen, dreaming of the day wed return with our own tales to share.
Her three-bedroom terraced house, inherited from her parents, was simple but elegant. Every shelf held trinketsgifts from pupils, handmade treasures. One room was nothing but books, floor to ceiling, with a cosy armchair nestled among them.
Thats where shed sit, reading to us as we sprawled on the rug, lost in stories before launching into lively debates. She played records, spoke of artists and poets, and opened doors to worlds wed never known.
At the start of each season, wed take our sketchbooks to the park near her house, capturing the changing world on paper. (Winter kept us indoors, painting frost-laced scenes from her window.) Her own watercolours were exquisite; sometimes, shed gift one to a lucky pupil. Wed play draughts after, the winner walking away with a prize.
Even after secondary school, we visited often. She taught a few more classes before retiring properlynot to rest, but to tutor from home.
Mrs. Thompson passed at eighty, book in hand, in her favourite chair. Katherineone of her first pupils, now a GP in her fortieswas with her.
Id never seen so many people weep at a funeral, nor so many flowers.
That was Mrs. Thompson. Her family wasnt bloodit was generations of children who loved her. She remembered every one, knew just what to say, never needed authority because respect came naturally. She taught us early what mattered: kindness, curiosity, the quiet joy of learning.
As one pupil put it, “She wasnt just a teacher. She was our first guide to loving this worldits beauty, its strangeness, its endless wonder.”
*Some people dont just teach lessons. They shape how you see everything.*
