Wearing The Trousers

My opinion about appropriate attire seemed to be falling on deaf ears . . .

CAN I have a quick word?” Dr No’s words dripped like ice into my ears. I was eager to keep on walking, but he blocked my path.

“This won’t take long, Miss Cameron. Once more, I have observed your arrival wearing trousers. Explain to me how this is professional attire,” he demanded.

I took a deep breath and tentatively explained how I loved to run. How it was important to me.

How I was jogging the two miles to and from my new flat wearing trousers.

“I change into a skirt every day before the children arrive. A tailored skirt that I’ve sewn myself,” I added for good measure, waiting for his approval.

Big mistake.

The head teacher scowled at me, then commenced a lecture about the need for discipline and order.

“Inside or outside this primary school, all staff must dress appropriately. Trousers would not foster a learning environment.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

I was appalled.

His real name was Mr Stewart, but he was known as Dr No because he refused every request he received.

I sighed, realising it was pointless trying to argue, as he swept off into his lair.

This cannot be happening, I thought repeatedly. I hadn’t considered wearing trousers outside of school a high-risk activity.

Mortified, I stood for a few moments, my stomach all atremble, reluctant to go further, gazing along the endless corridor.

How long since I had started as a probationer teacher? All of six weeks.

I was twenty-two. What was I doing here?

Was teaching the job for me? I was beginning to have doubts.

Oh, the children were lovely. They were the best part of the job.

The staff were supportive, and there was a staggering array of chocolate biscuits in the staff room.

But the head teacher . . . I trudged along to my classroom, thumped my bag containing the children’s jotters down on to the table and began my preparation for Monday morning.

Still, the run-in with Dr No weighed heavily on my mind.

Then I horrified myself by bursting into tears.

“That’s not my happy girl,” a voice boomed out. I whirled round.

A bear of a man with the reddest face I’d ever seen, and black hair a bit like a crow’s nest, was filling the doorway.

It was my friend Mike. Today he was looking more dishevelled than usual, and he seemed to be hiding something behind his back.

For a minute I thought it was his battered leather briefcase, which always bulged at the seams, stray pieces of paper erupting like Vesuvius through every gap.

I was wrong. He awkwardly revealed a sorry-looking bunch of flowers that looked like they had been run over by a bus.

“It was the last bunch in the shop,” Mike admitted. “I hope they’re OK.” “Perfect.” I didn’t hesitate. “Great.” A shy smile seemed to light up his body. “I just thought you could do with cheering up. The start of term’s always tough. But what’s up today?”

“This school,” I replied, trying to hide my anxiety. “Where I met my nemesis.”

“Nemesis?” He laughed. “Have they got a new record out?”

I grinned.

“You’re thinking of Genesis.”

Suddenly he was serious. “Come on, Rachel, spill.” A warmth filled me. There was no fooling Mike.

He knew me so well. And yet we had only met six weeks ago, waiting outside the head’s office.

“It feels like we’re in trouble already.” He’d grinned, his eyes crinkling with excitement.

I smiled back, glad of the lightened atmosphere.

I stared at my companion’s frankly terrifying dress choice, which consisted of a worse-for-wear sports jacket, a monstrosity of a

swirly patterned shirt and, strangely, a thin leather tie.

“Mike’s the name. I am the music teacher, and – how can I put this – I am destitute of vision.”

“I’m Rachel,” I replied, feeling ashamed of my critical thoughts and at the same time curious. “I’m new here. Tell me a bit more about yourself.”

Pain flittered across Mike’s face.

What I discovered on that first morning surprised me, but I’d also discovered my greatest friend, as this talented man told his incredible story.

“I may be big,” he began, “but once the bullies figure out you’re as soft as butter, you’re a target.”

“Was it very bad?”

A brief nod.

“I became an archaeologist to escape the taunts, because if you’re in a trench it’s harder for them to find you.”

“But you’re a music teacher.” I was confused. “How did that happen?”

“Well, with failing eyesight, I was forced to give up archaeology. I gained a degree in music, so here I am. I’ve been here a year.” He sounded matter of fact.

Immediately, I was touched by his vulnerability.

I discovered that the children loved and respected him, too. Nobody misbehaved in Mike’s class.

Willingly, they guided him around the school as he moved – sometimes skipping, to the children’s delight – from class to class. Right now, he persisted. “How are you getting on? It sounded like you were crying buckets.”

“I wasn’t crying,” I protested. “I have a cold.”

“The first few weeks can be awful.” He chuckled. “It gets better.”

“Really?” I asked pitifully. His kindness made me want to bawl my eyes out again.

“And then it gets worse – much worse.”

He threw back his head and guffawed.

“I’m only joking. Don’t mind me! Tell me what’s wrong.”

Stumbling over my words, I related the awful encounter with our boss.

Mike was unflustered by a fresh batch of tears.

Totally in control, he made me feel better.

He was also our union rep. His face became serious and he did a lot of listening.

“Come on,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully, when I had finished.

Taking my arm, he skipped me down the corridor and into his room.

“This is 1975 – I don’t think anyone has the right to ban you from wearing trousers in a Dundee street.

“Hold on, let me phone the union to check. Help me find the number.”

My heart sank when I saw his desk. Obediently, I rooted through the piles.

“It’s in there somewhere,” he told me.

A couple of minutes later, I triumphantly held up a letter with the phone number on it.

Without further ado, Mike made a quick phone call to confirm what we already suspected.

Yes, Dr No’s remarks were unjustified.

Yes, I was within my right to file a complaint.

I was incredibly anxious, and unsure if this was the right path so early in my career.

“Where do I take this one?” I asked Mike.

“Let’s sound out the others.”

With Mike fussing and making me tea, I filled in the teachers who were in the staff room.

Mike and I were the youngest members of staff. The older members were sympathetic, disliking Dr No’s controlling attitude.

Some referred to him as slightly irritating, and most warned against crossing swords with him.

“Rachel, be careful. You’re only twenty-two. Is this the right time to complain?”

Faced with these questions, I found I didn’t really want the answers.

“Listen to me, Rachel.” Mike was suddenly passionate.” You’re a great teacher, but you’re also a first-year probationer.

“However, we’re not going to let this go.”

Jim, the primary two teacher, intervened.

“I think this needs further discussion. In the meantime, can I suggest you don’t wear trousers to jog to school.”

At first, I was none too keen to back down, but as I thought long and hard, Mum’s lovely voice swam into my head.

She always helped me reach a plateau of calm.

I missed her so much. I know what she would have said.

“Sleep on it, love.”

She was right. As usual. Then it was time to put this problem to the back of my mind.

“Welcome.”

I beamed as the children filed in the next morning, choosing to forget New Teacher Tip Number One: don’t smile until Christmas.

Apparently, in order to keep your class under control, you had to remain sour faced to send the message you were not be messed with.

Well, it didn’t work for me. I decided to take a leaf from Mike’s book and grinned broadly, determined to put my own stamp on things.

I loved sewing and, with the help of Mum’s old Singer sewing machine, I had already made the classroom my own.

The children noticed the difference right away, and I felt it was a good start.

Every day, I explained what we would be learning.

Determined to be firm but fair, I set out my expectations.

“I’m really pleased to be your teacher. We’re going to have a brilliant year.” My eyes roved around the room.

Many children – the Sensible Stevens, I called them – gave the impression they were listening and were ready to do their best.

They made my day in the classroom worthwhile.

Others – the Negative Nigels – could be sceptical.

Still, I discovered I could win them over.

Twins Kirsty and Claire had arrived in primary seven with the reputation for being super sporty but feisty.

Easily bored and irritated, they looked like they were on the verge of throwing a strop.

Unpopular with the others, I could tell they were already discussing who to pick a fight with.

I hoped that it wouldn’t be me.

I was determined to give Kirsty and Claire a clean slate, and I was keen to see them achieve their best.

I noticed they were lacking in confidence and their work was messy and full of mistakes.

Their past teachers, eager to spill the beans on their challenging behaviour, gleefully repeated New Teacher Tip Number Two: pupils could be banned from sports clubs for unacceptable classwork.

The first lesson was maths, and once I had explained the task, all heads went down.

I was congratulating myself when I realised neither girl had picked up her pencil.

“Kirsty, Claire, is everything OK?” I asked quietly. “You don’t seem to have started.”

“I don’t like fractions,” Kirsty growled from under her fringe.

“Can’t do them,” Claire agreed.

“Right,” I said, determined to nip this in the bud, “We need to have a little chat.”

After the class surged out for playtime, I perched on the girls’ table.

They were slumped at the furthest end, as far away as they could be from me, sullen and subdued.

Studying their anxious faces, the only difference I