It is the second Monday of the autumn term and I am sitting on the bus next to Steven. The whole of Y7 have spent the first week in a flurry; smart haircuts and delighted squeals of reunion; it has been a blur of holiday stories, new uniform, fresh books, timetables and meetings, and preparation for our time away, bonding in the Quantocks. In striking up conversation I mention Steven’s Midland accent and ask him why he’s moved south. “Because my dad kept trying to kill my mum so we had to come down here.” he replies. His voice is both quiet and so matter of fact that I am not sure that I have heard what I think I have just heard and as the words sink in I find myself both alarmed but desperate to communicate calm and so we continue the conversation earnestly and honestly. He tells me, with a glint in his eye, that at his primary school he was naughty, ‘really naughty’ and we discover that we have something in common - we are both Wolves fans, in Steven’s case in spite of the rest of his family supporting West Brom.
When I look back I realise that almost the very first sentence Steven utters to me sums up his writing - disarmingly simple but devastatingly profound. At first he refuses to write at all. He tells me that he can’t write more than two sentences and seems to think that now he has cleared up that little issue that I will leave him be. It would be quite easy to do that! With constant squabbling between Kirky and Dylan to deal with and a group of very motivated girls to keep going, Steven’s non-conformity is at least quiet! So quiet that I have him sit next to me - literally next to me - so that I can actually sense if he slips off to do something else which he has a habit of doing.
The strategy of encouraging writing by giving a target number of sentences works well with Steven. He is sporty, competitive and up for the challenge. I am not too worried about what he writes for the time being I would just like to see words, lines, a page maybe. Paragraphs I can live without, spelling mistakes I can accommodate – the aim is to get him engaged. The trick works - in focusing on the sentences he gets hooked in to the story and before he knows it he has produced a page - only two full stops - but an A4 page of writing. He is eager for me to like his work and I have determined that after so much effort I will! Steven is the only child in the class who I will not ask to read aloud on the spot - his confidence is too fragile and my confidence in his writing and how the class might respond is not yet galvanised. He reads his work to me quietly in a corner and I realise that my concerns have been needless.
Of all the writers I have come across in my teaching career, Steven - to me -is the truest. Unscathed by reading, he doesn’t ape a style; go to town with adjectives and metaphor; contrive meaning and emotion, he just writes from the heart. And somehow his writing is gentle yet pulls no punches. One story I recall is about a man who is out walking in the park when a ‘lady’s dog falls into the lake’. Bravely he takes off his coat and wades in to rescue the dog. With mild thanks from the owner, having returned the dog safely, the man turns down the offer of money and heads off home. Back in his house, Richard describes very simply how the man dries off and sets about preparing supper. At first the attention to detail – hanging up a coat, laying out knives and forks, washing up - seems pedestrian but somehow Steven has evoked the loneliness of the man, an unsung hero, just going about the business of life. Effortlessly he has portrayed the enormity of one man’s solitude.
I see Steven about ten years later in Sainsburys. He is with his girlfriend and I would not have recognised him, his thinning red hair tucked under a baseball cap, but for his cheeky grin. He tells me that he is working for a landscaper, laying turf and patios and children’s playgrounds. He mentions proudly that his little brother - who was in my class the following year - is now at university. “Do you remember going on camp Miss?” he asks. “You got me to do the abseiling remember?” It is not the most vivid memory for me, I have to admit, over the years I have coaxed and reassured many a pupil down rock faces in Wales. ‘Oh yes...” I reply, mentally limbering up for a warm reminisce about how I had talked him round to taking an opportunity while it was available, persuaded him that the dangers were limited, that the fear could be defeated, readying myself to hear how it is one of his fonder memories of school. I fish about a bit more “Really! How did I do that?” I ask. “You said ‘You’re coming with me!’ grabbed me and I abseiled down with you!” he replies. Once again I am swept away by Steven’s directness but this time it brings not a tear but a warm smile.
