The best teachers give you questions, not just answers

Hardeep Singh Kohli

IWAS on the phone to Ronnie Renton last week. Mr Renton and I first met 35 years ago. He was my English teacher. The fact that I’m still in touch with him and heading for a September lunch speaks volumes for the man and his methods. Alongside a few other teachers, Mr Douglas, Mrs Higgins and “Butch” Cassidy, Ronnie was an inspiration. He didn’t just teach; he led. If it weren’t for Ronnie introducing me to A Man For All Seasons I’d never have studied law at Glasgow University, never led this life more extraordinary. Ronnie never gave you the answers; he asked you the questions. He didn’t teach; he taught you to learn. Mrs Higgins was the same. I was deeply upset to leave Ronnie in fourth year; I was doing my Highers, and they were far too important to place in the hands of the new teacher, Mrs Higgins. No. I wanted Ronnie. But I was blessed to have both. Mrs Higgins was a quiet sort of amazing. The only woman in the department, she was far too clever and witty for us spotty teenagers. She didn’t teach by rote; that couldn’t have been further from her style. As with Ronnie, her classes were alive, vibrant with debate, discourse, determination. She never handed out sheets of set answers, accepted versions that would garner the class better marks. Every now and again one of us would ask her if the answers we had proffered were right. “There are no right answers. My job isn’t to indoctrinate you; my job is to encourage you to think.” In the mid-1980s, this was revolutionary thinking. I attended a school driven by exam results. Parents wanted their children, her pupils, to get As. I’m not sure they were altogether interested in how they got those As, and I’m sure none of the universities did. I’ll never for- get one particular Thursday morning in March. A normally chipper, upbeat Mrs Higgins entered double English dolefully, an arm full of handouts. Silently she passed them around the class. When she finally spoke, the defeat was evident in her voice.

It appeared that some parents had complained that their weans weren’t sufficiently prepared for the upcoming exams. They had contacted the school. Mrs Higgins had been spoken to and she had photocopied crib sheets, dull and predictable notes that would ascertain better grades.

I was reminded of Mrs Higgins at this exam-intense time of the year. A truck driver, Scott Craddock, took a high-paying job in Kuwait to service the £28,000 school fees for his son, David, to attend the prestigious Abbotsholme School in Staffordshire. Though he says he was assured his son would achieve at least five GCSEs, some £125k later wee Davie managed just one grade C in science. That’s it. So Craddock senior is now suing the school for failing his son. I know.

WELCOME to the free market. If you pay, you have a say. And while there is an understandable ex t r ap ol at i on of value for money when money has been spent, Mr Craddock would need to prove incompetence to have any joy with his writ. (And I’m guessing the now retired trucker might have better things to spend his money on.)

Here’s a thought; a harsh thought but mibbe a fair thought. David isn’t perhaps academically gifted.

I don’t know David but I’m guessing that mibbe his dad might have spent the money more wisely. Would he have done any worse in the state-school sector? In fact, he might have grown up with his dad around rather than busting a gut driving trucks in Kuwait. I’m also guessing that David probably feels a bit low right now. The last thing he needs is the attention of a high-profile legal action to make him feel better about himself. David might be a brilliant future plumber, world-changing entrepreneur, best-selling stand-up comic. Here’s a idea, Mr Craddock. Sack the suit and spend some time with your boy. Sounds like he needs his dad more than extra GCSEs.