Rule Number Six

Perks

There are not many perks in this job of headmastering. One of them, jealously guarded by me, is a parking space outside the front door with an impressive and intimidating ‘HM’ painted in large letters on the tarmac. Various interpretations have been offered over the years suggesting what this might stand for – varying from a pejorative Afrikaans slang term to colonial regal terminology. I much prefer the latter and have been gently encouraging boys over the years to bow respectfully from the waist when I pass.

Unfortunately there is little chance of that which is yet another indication of how standards continue slipping in South African education. However, I did once have the regal bar set for headmasters when I was given a tour round his campus by the Headmaster of Chand Bagh School - which was about an hour’s drive from Lahore in Pakistan. As we drove past staff working on the grounds, they would snap to attention and salute the headmaster’s official car – chauffeured of course. When I returned to the cricket field where the Wynberg team was playing, I mentioned this to our coach, Eric Lefson, and suggested that saluting the Headmaster would be a fine new tradition to take back to Wynberg.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Eric with his accustomed dry wit. ‘You might find that they don’t use all five fingers in their salute.’

Those dozens of families still trying to ensure their son’s entry to Wynberg next year would probably appreciate Eric’s point.

I did enjoy sitting on the couch in the Headmaster’s tent on the side of the Chand Bagh cricket field. The two of us were in splendid isolation on this luxurious Eastern divan watching the cricket in the shade provided by the tent. I momentarily felt sorry for our boys in the sun – but I soon pushed those weak feelings aside. I could become accustomed to this way of headmastering. The only aspect missing from this colonial throwback scene, was someone waving a palm frond over my head.

Watching cricket at Chand Bagh School in 2006

‘Just clap your hands if you want anything,’ said my host. I was (initially) far too embarrassed to try anything like that, but my hospitable host showed me how it was done. He asked me if I would like some tea. I concurred.

He clapped his hands and what can only be described in colonial terms as a Headmaster’s ‘wallah’ emerged from the back of the tent. ‘Two teas please.’

Ten minutes later, he clapped his hands again and the wallah appeared and took away the tea cups.

Later on, the process was continued with delicious home-made lemonade – with the lemons coming from their own estate, the Headmaster informed me. As we were in a Moslem country, I thought it inappropriate to tell him that we grew our own vines on our estate. One-upmanship is so tacky.

I soon learnt to clap my hands. I have never ever drunk so much lemonade in so short a time.

Wynberg's 1st XI: Coach Eric Lefson commandeered the electric fan ...

On my return to Wynberg, I made the mistake of suggesting to my secretary, Glenda Hepworth, that this effective system of clapping hands could be way forward. Her reply was unprintable. I had a similar reaction from my wife. I have had a reasonable amount of success from my dogs who found the clapping amusing and wagged their tails enthusiastically – but as a concept, clapping for service seemed doomed never to take off as business model here at the tip of Africa.

I think I will suggest to the Western Cape Education Department that Pakistan schools know how to do things. If Pakistan was not so volatile today, I would suggest that they send me back there to pick up a few more of these valuable educational tips.

These delusions of grandeur, have caused me to digress from my only perk – my valuable parking space. Its value is that, when there is an event on, I can always arrive knowing that there is a parking space available to me.

A few weeks ago, we had a meeting for matric parents. I returned from attending an earlier function and arrived back at school at the last moment. Cars were parked all along Lovers Walk, but I was able to slip my car into the allotted spot designated by the imposing ‘HM’. A parent walking passed my car, greeted me and we fell into conversation. As we approached the steps at the front of the school, clearly thinking he was addressing a fellow parent, he asked me whether this was my first son doing matric.

I was somewhat taken aback. It brought home to me, yet again, that delusions of grandeur for a Headmaster (except in Pakistan) are just that – mere delusions!

‘Er, no,’ I said thinking furiously how I could make a suitably appropriate response. My rejoinder was lame. ‘No son here – I am a teacher at the school.’

‘Oh,’ he said, the penny still not dropping. ‘Enjoy the evening then,’ and off he went. After a few paces, he stopped and said, ’As you are one of the teachers, perhaps you can show me where the Fish Bowl is?’

Fortunately his son came up to him at that point and was able to help him to the meeting venue. I wondered where he had been for five years. Had he not supported his son at any prize giving? Any Founders’ Day Ceremony? Any play or musical event? Any sports event?

As I did not see him afterwards, I am not sure what he thought when I stood up later to address the gathering. Maybe he didn’t recognise me as the ‘parent’ who walked in with him.

It reminded me of a similar situation fifteen years ago when I was first appointed. I was addressing the beginning-of-year Ladies’ Association AGM. As I was standing there waxing lyrical with what I hoped were witty and droll anecdotes of school life, I noticed a lady come in late and slip into the back row where my wife, Pippa, had seated herself. She listened to me for a few moments before leaning over to Pippa and in a conspiratorial whisper asked her who this speaker was.

Pippa never one to bear cudgels for her husband, said airily, ‘Oh, some chap whom they have just appointed as Headmaster.’

‘Really?’ was the response. ‘What happened to that nice Mr Probyn?’

On thinking about it now, it would have been appropriate back then to have applied for a job at Chand Bagh. Matters did not improve at my first Old Boys’ gathering. It was the 60th reunion of that year group and a number of them had gathered with wives at the Bill Bowden Pavilion. I had been invited to address the gathering about the latest events at their old school and was duly given a label with my name on it.

One of the class wandered over to greet me. After peering at my label, he said loudly, ‘Richardson? Richardson? I don’t remember a Richardson in our class.’

As this would have added a good thirty years to my age, I hastily assured him that I was not at the function as a classmate – but as a teacher.

I saw him furrow his brow and scrutinise my label again – and then examine my face. He then shook his head slowly with resolute conviction. ‘Are you sure? I don’t remember you teaching us.’

For ever the diplomat, I let it rest there. If I had taught that 1950 class, it would have made me about eighty five years old at that re-union. Not bad for a newly appointed Headmaster of Wynberg Boys’ High School.

There are probably many on the teaching staff who are also convinced that I was a teacher in that early era, when I took a staff meeting on exam procedure one June some years back. ‘Don’t forget,’ I exhorted them, ‘that there must be no borrowing at all during exams. No exceptions. If the pupils forget something – tough luck. They must learn to be organised. No borrowing of rulers, pens, calculators, log books. Nothing!’

There was a palpable restlessness through the staff room. I saw a few sidelong glances going around. There was a hint of a smile on some faces. It was quite clear that I had said something that was causing this reaction. Ignoring everything, I ploughed on regardless with all the other exam regulations.

After the meeting, I spoke to Deputy Principal, Larry Moser. ‘Did you pick up something in that staff meeting?’ I asked. ‘I felt that I lost them at one point.’

Larry was as diplomatic as ever. ‘It was your reference to logbooks,’ he said. ‘We haven’t used log books in over twenty years.’

Well! Someone forgot to tell this Latin teacher that little titbit of information. We all had logbooks for Maths when I was at school.

‘Are you thinking of changing your email address?’ said one of the teachers to me the next day without a semblance of a smile. ‘I think it should be krichardson@dinosaur.com.’

I think that they eventually found that teacher a post, somewhere in the country.

The best advice ever for Headmasters - or indeed anyone in leadership positions – was given by Benjamin Zander, conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, in his inspiring book: The Art of Possibility.

I have continually to remind oneself about Rule Number Six in my daily dealings with schoolboys. During the final week of last term, two Grade 8 boys - about 14 years old - were talking in the corridor outside my office. It was a few minutes before school and they were waiting for their Grandparents to arrive for the annual Grade 8 Grandparents’ Day.

I was drowning in end-of-term reports. 850 comments on 850 reports is a time-consuming business especially as one wants to write meaningful comments which will evoke a reflective response and philosophical discussion between parents and son when the report arrives back home.

‘Come on,’ urged one of the boys. ‘Let’s go and ask him.’ Eventuality they plucked up courage and knocked on my door. ‘Sir, are you busy?’ I usually find that comment about as helpful as the customary, ‘Do you have a minute?’

I did my usual growl, but that did not put them off – they were far too intent on asking their question.

‘Sir, we have been talking. Can you tell us what a headmaster actually does? ‘