The Education Problem

Despite growing up on an island with just four inhabitants, I had a full, formal education and even gained some qualifications.

 

The empty house was used as a temporary school for myself and Alun and the mainland council arranged for a teacher to school us, Mr Hurdy.

 

I remember Mr Hurdy well; he was white-haired, with an enormous white beard and even had white hairs curling out of his ears and nose. He looked frightening even without knowing he was a teacher and he ruled me and Alun with a rod of iron, a strop of leather and selection of wooden canes.

 

Alun’s father took a keen interest in our education. I would go home with Alun after school for a cheese-based treat, and Alun senior would bombard us with questions. “What did you do today?” he’d ask.

“History,” we’d answer.

“History, ah my favourite subject. Did you cover the time the mainland customs tried to impose a tax on all people called Alan? And the cunning ruse my ancestors devised to avoid the tax?”

 

“No, we didn’t cover that,” we’d reply, “we covered the mainland wars against the French.”

 

“Ah, mainland history. Not as interesting as our history,” he’d mutter, and proceed to tell us the tall tale about how our ancestors had avoided the Alan tax.

 

The next day he’d ask us again what we were taught. “Law,” we would say.

 

“Ah, the law,” Alun senior would say, “my favourite subject. Did you cover the law banning the feeding of puffins on Tuesday mornings between 8.00 and 9.00 a.m.”

 

“We didn’t cover island law today,” Alun would say tentatively, “we did mainland law – murder, theft and corporate fraud.”

 

“Ah, what do you need to learn that rubbish for? That’s not proper law.”

 

Every day the conversation would follow the same pattern, we’d explain the lessons Mr Hurdy had taught us and Alun’s father would become furious that we had only covered the topic from a mainland perspective.  

 

“This is ridiculous,” he complained, “all your ever taught is about the mainland. Mainland history, mainland laws, mainland physics (our island has its own laws of physics) mainland geography. It’s crazy. And this teacher, he’s a mainlander, what does he know about the island?”

 

When Alun’s dad had a temper about him it was best to nod silently and agree with him as unobtrusively as possible.

“I’m going to write to the council,” he said. “I can’t have my child taught irrelevant rubbish by a foreigner. How would mainland children feel if they were all taught to speak French?”

 

Alun and I were left scratching our heads at such an absurd suggestion. Whilst the mainland language isn’t pretty, it was good enough for Shakespeare. (It was a great shock to me, many years later, when I met a mainlander who had taken the trouble to learn French. “But why?” I’d asked horrified, “it means you have to talk to French people.”)

 

A few days later we were visited at a respectable business-hours time by a polite knock on our back door. It was Alun’s junior and senior, together with a suit and tie containing a mainland official.

 

“I understand you have issues about the schooling of the two island lads,” he said, gesturing towards myself and Alun.

 

My mother had only just taken her medication and wasn’t up to detailed negotiations with a mainlander, so we retreated to our business operations room (which doubled up as a lounge and diner) with the official and Alun’s father.

 

“I have the curriculum here,” the official said, “if there’s any subject the children are missing out on then I will find them a new teacher immediately. Now history, are they being taught history?”

“Yes, but only mainland history, nothing about the history of the island.”

 

The official studied his form carefully. “No, that’s fine. The history of your island is an optional subject, it doesn’t need to be covered.” So saying he made a tick in the appropriate box on his clipboard, to confirm that we were being educated to standard.

 

“What about literature?”

 

“It’s the same problem,” Alun’s father barked, “they’re being taught Shakespeare, Keats, Dickens and Agatha Christie, but none of the island’s poets. Why, my ode to a purple carrot isn’t even on their optional reading list.”

 

The council official again checked his list and shook his head. “None of your island’s literature is on the reading list, I’m afraid. As long as they’re covering Shakespeare and Christie they’re meeting our standards.” He ticked the box marked Shakespeare and the box marked Christie.

And so it went on. For every subject it became apparent that Mr Hurdy was indeed teaching the required curriculum. The island-related curricula so precious to Alun’s father was of no interest to the official, because it wasn’t on his tick-list.

 

“Well, even if they’re getting sufficient education in your eyes, I still demand another teacher. A non-mainlander. Someone who can teach them about island life.”

 

“Well, that’s within your rights, of course,” the official said. “If you can suggest a suitably qualified adult to teach the children in Mr Hurdy’s stead.”

 

“In Mr Hurdy’s shed? Why on earth would I want my child educated in a mainland shed.”

 

“No, no, no, in his stead – instead of.”

 

“Oh, I see. Clearly you were taught mainland speak by Mr Hurdy.” (Alun senior had quite a wit about him when his ire was up). “Well, I’m more than happy to teach them myself. I’m a qualified man of the church.” (Alun’s father was the island’s priest of all faiths).

 

“Yes, yes, well you’re qualified to teach religious studies, I’ll grant you that, but without a teaching qualification and no other area of experience-based expertise, I couldn’t possibly allow you to become their teacher. No, I’m afraid I shall have to decline your request Mr Davies, Mr Hurdy shall continue as the boys’ teacher and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

And so the official left, to await the late-afternoon boat to take him back to the mainland.  Alun’s father followed him to the boat, arguing all the way, but to no avail.

 

“How did it go?” the boatman asked Alun’s father, as the official sat on his boat, wondering why he wasn’t leaving.

 

“Not well,” he confessed. “It seems I’m not suitable to teach a pair of knee-highs anything other than religious studies.”

 

“Well, said the boatman, that’s a start. I could chip in with a bit of geography, there’s nobody knows their way around the seas of this land than I do.”

 

“That’s still just two subjects.”

 

“Well, there’s the two Germans who live on Nazi Island. They were involved with the last war, they’d be perfect to teach history, from personal experience, plus German language. And then there’s Fred Davis, the snooker player. He’s retired and moved to Billiard Island, who better to teach the boys sport than a former world champion?”

 

“And what finer sport is there than snooker? You know, I think you have a point. And Neil Armstrong comes over to visit every summer, he could teach science. In fact who is there in the world better to teach science, he’s been to the moon and back again.”   

 

“And of course there are the mad poets on Mad Poet Island, they could cover literature.”

 

“Hey you,” Alun’s father shouted at the council official who had been waiting patiently for the boatman to set off.

“What is it now?” he asked.

 

“We’ve got a plan. The children will be taught by a rota of experienced, qualified individuals from across the archipelago. I may only be suitable to teach religion, but between us we cover the whole curriculum.”

 

The official had no choice but to climb out of the boat, remove his clipboard and begin the questioning all over again. This time Alun’s father ticked his way through all the questions, by identifying suitable teachers from the extensive network of contacts that you inevitably develop living on an island.

 

“Well, well,” the council official said. “It looks as if you meet our criteria. It’s a sad day for Mr Hurdy, there’s not a single school on the mainland that will let him teach. It looks like we’ll have to pension him off.”

 

And so my real education began. Alun and I had every conceivable lesson, a far broader and comprehensive education than mainland children receive. Mrs Tulperry

taught us crochet and croquet. Various visiting trombonists and bassoonists took turns to teach us music and my mother taught us archery, shooting and darts. The boatman taught us geography, water sports and how to swear in seventeen different languages.

 

It is also the reason Alun and I became so closely acquainted with all of the residents of the various islands on our archipelago, leading to a wide world of adventures beyond the feeble imagination of a mainlander.