Dear Teacher,

IAM happy to take this opportunity to thank you, and tell you and everyone who reads this what a talented, caring teacher you were. I sometimes wonder am I the only person in this land who feels lucky to have been taught by kind but fair teachers like you?

We first met at the school gate. My mam dressed me in my pink rosebud dress with ribbons in my hair. Dad carried me on the carrier, cycling slowly to avoid the potholes. I thought you looked beautiful with your curly hair and pretty summer dress. From you I heard my first words of Irish, Cailin Nua. You gave your cisean to a senior girl and took me by the hand to the infants’ room. Later you gave me a jotter, a pencil and a picture book. My mala was full and my school days had begun.

A few days before Christmas brings my next memory. The classroom door opened behind us and to our utter amazement, Daidi Na Nollag walked in. Santa wore a bright red, woolly suit and carried a large sack, with surreal, large coloured balloons tied to his walking stick. He proceeded to give presents to each child — story books to the senior girls, balloons to the infants. I wanted a story book so much. I still cherish that memory of meeting Santa.

You washed faces, combed hair and quietly gave clean clothes — encouraging children, no matter what the circumstances, to come to school.

You asked for our prayers for “special intentions”, which I now know were for sick mams and people in hospital. You gave us stars when we made extra effort and stark warnings when we got careless. “Girls, learn your English, Irish and maths or ye will end up marrying a farmer.” A certain life of hard work, no pay and no pension...

One spring day you heard that my mam and dad had bought a new home, that I would be leaving and moving to a new school. It was then you asked me to come to tea at your house on Sunday afternoon. There was someone you wanted me to meet, to make a presentation to on behalf of the school. Of course I said yes, I’d love to come. I ran home all excited with the invite but I got no reply from mam or dad — they were far too busy moving house. Slowly I began to realise I could not go on my own; I had no idea where teacher lived. Sunday came and my invite to the tea party wasn’t mentioned. I was so disappointed.

Monday morning I could not raise my head and look teacher in the face. You quietly said you had waited all evening for me. I stood there in silence. I could find no words, no excuse.

We were to meet again. I was crossing the street with two young children by the hand. You held a beautiful bouquet of flowers in your arms. I plucked up the courage: who was it you wanted me to meet on that Sunday afternoon before I moved away? You smiled dreamily through the lilies and roses. “I can’t remember now, my memory isn’t so good,” you said as you wished me well. So I never did find out who you wanted me to meet as a surprise at your tea party.

A few weeks later my classmates called me. Our teacher had passed away. Together we walked to the funeral, talking in hushed voices of our schooldays. You looked as beautiful laid out as when I first saw you at the school gate.

Memories came flooding back, as they will. You were a widow for many years and never had children. Who remembers the prayer teacher said everyday? I got smiles but no reply. Then your handsome nephew asked if I would say a prayer.

I hope that by reciting your favourite prayer I made you proud and made up, in some small way, for disappointing you on that spring Sunday afternoon, so many years ago.

Your realta pupil, Sorcha, Name and address with Editor