This was written as a creative nonfiction writing assignment I set myself, as a way of paying homage to a dedicated — if fierce — teacher.
Trees in Epping Forest, by Terry Freedman
Mr Nicholls was the deputy headmaster at my school, but everyone called him 'Old Nick'. I wasn't aware of the significance of the nickname at the time, but it certainly fitted. For a start, he looked old, even though he was probably only fifty or so at the time. As for the 'Nick' part, he was strict to the point of being draconian.
In the five years I was a pupil at the school, I didn't see him smile. Not once. Not even to fellow teachers.
After morning assembly, he would sometimes carry out inspections. One boy's hair was deemed too long – it was just about touching his collar. Old Nick sent him home, and told him not to come back until he'd had a haircut.
I was once caught out during an inspection. It was 1964, and my friends and I had tucked our collars and lapels in so that our blazers resembled Beatle jackets. Unfortunately, Old Nick was at the door as we filed out of the hall. He told us to wait at the side.
"Tuck your collars in and present yourselves like gentlemen", he barked. Then when we were once again properly dressed he let us go to our lesson.
Old Nick taught Geography, and one year we had him as our teacher for that subject. I missed the first lesson of the year, but on the way to the second lesson a friend noticed that I had a brand new pocket atlas in my briefcase. I'd bought it specially to impress Old Nick with my seriousness towards and love of the subject.
"For God's sake hide that thing", my friend hissed.
"Why?"
It turned out that he and some other lads had turned up to the first lesson clutching pocket atlases for exactly the same reason as me. Old Nick's response? Far from delight, he said to the boys:
"I don't approve of pocket atlases, and to help you remember that I'm going to cane you."
And he did exactly that, lined them up and caned them on the spot.
I used to sometimes wonder whether Old Nick ever remembered that he was a human being. A human being, just like me and the rest of us. That he didn't have to be quite so, so awful. Sometimes, indeed, I wondered if he actually was human.
About a week after leaving school, having taken my 'O' Levels, I went back to see a few of the masters. I was hoping they might be prepared to furnish me with references or testimonials. As I walked through the corridors, I came across Old Nick, and instantly froze.
"Freedman", he beamed. "How are you doing? Really? Excellent, excellent. Well good luck, and good to see you."
In the space of a few weeks I had been transformed in his eyes from an urchin who probably needed to be punished for something to a young man setting out on his life's journey.
A few years later I read that a pupil at the school was killed on the playing field by a javelin. It fell to Old Nick to tell the school in an assembly what had happened. I heard that while doing so he broke down, which must have been almost as devastating to him as having such a tragic accident happen in his school. I believe he retired soon after.
It turns out that Old Nick was human after all.