This happened at a typical English primary school in 1986. Now, there were plenty of witnesses, all of them eight-year-olds, but not one of them breathed a word to anyone about what had happened. Consequently, the whole thing never reached outside those classroom walls. Even the parentswho probably figured out what went ondidnt lodge any complaints with the teacher. Not a peep from anyone.
I only heard this tale from the teacher herself, who spent a lifetime racked by guilt and memories of how harshly shed treated one particular pupil. Truthfully, it was an awkward business, and Im still not sure what to make of it. Id love to hear your thoughts
So, a fresh-out-of-university teacher landed a job in a small Midlands town. She was only 22, still practically a girl herself, and woefully inexperienced. All she wanted was to get her first class and show her worthprofessionally and as a good human being. And, all things considered, she rose to the challenge. Shed inherited a bunch of kids who didnt get into the gifted and talented group, but their grades soon pleased both their parents and the headteacher. As for discipline, she ran a pretty tight ship.
Of course, in every class of thirty-five, youll always get a few who test the limits. Miss Catherine Walton, as well call her, was no exception. She actually managed to win most of them overgot them engaged with school life and even made them feel important. All except one.
Robbie was from a single-parent household. His mum pretty much kept him clothed and fed, but that was about it. So, young Robbie grew up a bit wild, more like a dandelion in the cracks than a well-tended rose, and didnt see the point of making friends with either his peers or the grown-ups.
Miss Walton did her best to befriend Robbie, but she got nowhere. Everything he did was calculated to wind people up. Sometimes, hed spend the entire lesson hiding under his desk, pulling faces at the others and setting the whole class giggling. He swore like a docker, making sure everyone heard, and called people names until the girls were in tears. He even took up smoking out in the yardsomething not even the Year Elevens dared try.
Confront Robbie and youd get the same old response, said with a smirk:
And what are you going to do about it, then?
But the bit that really turned everyones stomachRobbie spat at people. Every single kid in class was a target at least once. He did it with such gusto: a big gob of spit sent flying with relish toward his chosen victim. Disgusting didnt even cover it.
Miss Walton tried every trick in the bookreasoning with him, telling him off, explaining why it was wrong. Utterly hopeless. He only spat more often and with more enthusiasm.
Finally, in desperation, she approached his mum for help. She never liked involving parents in discipline, but shed hit a wall:
Could you please have a word with Robbie? He just wont listen to me. Hes spat at every child in the class; Im beginning to suspect Im next.
His mum promised shed sort it. By all accounts, she walloped him with a poker. Robbie turned up at school bruised, eyes simmering with spite.
That same day, he went on the offensive in the corridor, spitting at children left, right, and centre. First he did it on the sly, then brazen as you please. He took real glee in it, cackling as the other kids wiped spit from their faces and sometimes sobbed in helplessness. Why he dared spit at the big kids is anyones guess. Small as he was, he showed no sense of self-preservation.
The older boys occasionally caught him and gave him a thrashing, with fair warnings, but always let him run off. Hed leg it twenty yards away and hurl the most colourful insults he could muster.
Robbie was driving everyone round the bend. His piece de résistance was a tremendous gob of spit that landed squarely on the head of the much-loved geography teacher. Hed crowded up onto the staircase and sent his slimy greetings down at anyone walking by. He must have mistaken the teacher for an older girl. She hardly noticed, but a bunch of Year Tens saw the whole thing. They told her, then gave Robbie such a pasting that he ended up in the school nurses office.
Miss Walton, one day this is going to end in tears, the nurse, Mrs Jennings, told her gravely, once Robbie had bolted back to class.
Ive tried everything, sighed Miss Walton. He doesnt care. It just makes him more defiant.
Some children, Mrs Jennings mused, only understand their own language.
So whatshould I spit at him myself to get the message through? snapped Miss Walton, unsure who she was even angry with.
Hmm. I really couldnt say
That was the end of the chat. But the idea stuck like chewing gum to her brain.
Robbie cooled off for a few days after his run-in with the bigger boys, then went right back to his old tricks.
One day, a girl in class had a birthday and brought in chocolates to share. Everyone congratulated her. Naturally, Robbie marked the occasion by spitting in her face. She fled the room, sobbing, while he stood defiantly, shooting the teacher a look as if to say, What are you going to do now, eh?
Miss Walton snapped.
She summoned Robbie to the front.
Locked the classroom door, and fixed the children with a steely glare.
Stand up if Robbies spat at you, even once.
Nearly everyone rose.
Weve all told him its disgusting and wrong, but he clearly doesnt get it, Miss Walton said. So today, youre all going to do something very un-British and very rude, but I cant see another way. Each of you will spit at Robbie once. Maybe hell finally understand how awful it feels.
The class edged forward, silent and grim. Robbie rushed to the door, forgetting it was locked, and ended up trapped in the corner by the sink, as his classmates methodically queued up. Some did it earnestly, with a strange satisfaction; others just half-heartedly pursed their lips and felt embarrassed. But almost everyone took part, in batches, swiftly and silently. No laughter. No words.
All you could hear was Robbies squealing.
When everyone sat back down, Robbie was a sorry sightsquatting on the floor, head in hands, tears streaming down his spit-splattered cheeks.
Miss Walton looked around at the silent class. The silence was sharp as a pin.
I dont know about you, but I feel ashamed. For myself. For him. For us all.
The children stared at the floor.
Remember today, she continued. Dont let yourselves treat anyone like that againnot with words, not with actions. Youve all seen where it leads.
She flung open the door. Robbie bolted out, half crawling.
I wont say this has to be our secret; I think you understand, Miss Walton said quietly. Youre dismissed.
Robbie vanished for the rest of the day. Didnt appear the next day, either.
Miss Walton visited his house, bracing herself for a run-in with his mum, only to find that she had no clue what had gone on.
Hes not himself, she fretted. Just cries, says he doesnt want to go back.
May I speak with him? Miss Walton asked, and was ushered in.
Robbie dove under his duvet at the very sight of her.
I get itits humiliating, Miss Walton said gently, placing a hand on his head. And frightening. Youre afraid theyll all laugh at you now.
Robbie said nothing.
But youre not a coward, are you? They might have a giggle, but youll survive.
No reply.
Maybe youd like to move to another class? Perhaps the kids there will enjoy having you spit at them?
Robbie shot upright, eyes blazing.
Ill never spit again! he blurted. Please dont move me.
Thats good. The others are worried youre not coming in.
He lowered his head and said nothing.
Miss Walton ruffled his hair.
Right then. See you tomorrow.
See you, he mumbled.
When Robbie returned to class, everyone acted like nothing had happened.
Nobody spat again. Ever.
As the years went on, the staff often commented how unusually close that cohort was.
Its like theyre one big family, someone would say.
More like they share a dark secret, another would quip, thinking themselves terribly witty.
Miss Walton, by then, had moved on to another school in another city. She never came back.
But for years, the memory of that ghastly day haunted her. She worried shed scarred the children for life.
When she finally confided in me, I suggested she ask around about Robbie and find out what became of himjust to put her mind at rest.
So, she did.
Turned out, when Robbie was in Year Six, his mum married a retired Army major, who insisted Robbie go to Sandhurst Prep and saw to it personally.
Now, the boy once known as that spitball terror is about 45 and a respected officer. Hes still in touch with loads of his old classmateseven pops back to his hometown sometimes.
One more thing: at every school reunion, the story of how Robbie was reformed never gets a mention. Not even as a joke. Perhaps theyve truly forgotten Or maybe, just maybe, theyre the most loyal keepers of all.
