This Incident Happened in a British School

This incident happened in an English primary school back in 1986. Those who witnessed iteight-year-old childrennever breathed a word about it to anyone, which is probably why the story never left the classroom. Even their parents, who no doubt learned the truth eventually, never brought any complaints to the teacher in question. Not a peep.

I only know about it because the teacher herself told me, decades later. The memory of that day and her guilt towards a certain pupil haunted her for the rest of her life.

The situation, to be honest, was deeply unpleasant. I still cant quite decide how I feel about it all.

Ill never forget my first year of teaching, arriving straight out of university at twenty-two, filled with the urge to prove myself. Id been assigned a class in a small Midlands towna group of children left over after all the top ones were filtered into a specialist class in the same year. Nevertheless, I found a kind of pride in their progress; their parents and the headteacher took notice too. Discipline was rarely an issue.

Naturally, not all thirty-five children were angels. Every class has a few who like to test their teachers resolve. I managed to win most of them over, even involving them in little class projects or school events. All except for one.

Lets call him Alfie. He came from a single-parent home. His mother hardly bothered with him, so long as he was fed and dressed for school, she was satisfied. Alfie was left largely to his own devices, growing up much like wild grass in a fieldaloof and absolutely uninterested in communicating with anyone, child or adult.

I tried time and again to form some sort of connection with Alfie, to no avail. He did everything purely out of spite. He could spend an entire lesson hiding below his desk, making faces at his classmates until they collapsed in fits of laughter. He swore loudly, using language youd expect from dockworkers, not schoolboys, just to be sure everyone heard him. He called people names, teasing and taunting, usually to the point of tearsespecially the girls. On the school playground, he smoked openlythe sort of thing even the older children wouldnt dare.

Whenever Ior anyone elsetold him off, Alfie would just glare and say, brazen as anything, And what are you going to do about it?

But the worst of his behaviour? Spitting. No one in the class escaped his disgust one way or another. With obvious satisfaction, hed gather as much saliva as possible before launching it at his next victim.

There are barely words for how revolting it was.

I talked to Alfie so many times, tried to reason with him, shamed him, explained why it was wrongnothing worked. If anything, it only made him double his efforts.

Eventually, I rang his mother, something I tried to avoid if possible. This time, though, I was at my wits end. Please, I begged, could you have a word with Alfie? Hes spat on everyone in class, and frankly its only a matter of time before its my turn.

She assured me shed sort it out and gave him such a harsh scolding that Alfie turned up to school next day covered in bruises, glaring at me with open hatred. And that very day, as if in retaliation, he started spitting in the corridors during break time. Sometimes hed do it on the sly, but sometimes he didnt even bother hiding it.

It seemed, if anything, that he relished tormenting the others, laughing whenever he saw their disgusted or tearful faces. Why Alfie spat at the older students remains a mysteryeven though he was much smaller than them and seemed to lack self-preservation. On a few occasions, the older boys caught up with him, gave him a bit of a walloping, warned him off, then let him go. Alfie would run a good twenty yards off and start hurling colourful insults over his shoulder.

The class, in short, was at their wits end. The crowning moment of all this came when Alfie climbed up a stairwell and spat directly onto the head of the geography teacher, one of the most beloved staff in our school. He either didnt see who he was targeting or didnt care. The poor woman wasnt even aware what had happenedbut the Year Ten children saw everything, told her and, after catching Alfie, gave him a proper telling-off, so much so that he was sent to the nurses office.

You know, Miss Sutton, this cant go on like this forever, said our elderly nurse as the culprit ran off back to class. Somethings got to be done.

Ive tried everything, I said. Talking, punishment, nothing works. He just gets worse.

Some kids, she said quietly, only understand if you speak their own language.

What then, am I supposed to spit on him myself? I snapped, feeling helpless.

She just shrugged. That conversation stuck with me, though, like a burr under the skin.

For a little while after his beatings, Alfie calmed down. But it wasnt long before the old tricks resurfaced.

One day, it was a classmates birthday. She brought in chocolate biscuits, handed them kindly around, and everyonemyself includedoffered her well wishes. Alfie, of course, couldnt resist: he spat right in the birthday girls face. She burst into tears. Alfie, meanwhile, looked right at me, daring me: And what will you do about it?

That was the breaking point.

I called Alfie to the front of the classroom, silently locked the door, and looked over my now very quiet pupils.

If youve ever been spat on by Alfie, please stand up, I said.

Nearly everyone rose from their seat.

Weve talked to Alfie about this so many times. Clearly, he doesnt understand. Perhaps if he sees for himself how unpleasant it feels, he might finally get it, I announced. As awful as it is, Im giving each of you permission to spit at Alfie, just once. Polite people would never do something like this, but I cant think of another way to get through to him.

The room shivered with tension. The children moved silently towards Alfie, who suddenly realised what was coming and bolted for the doorit was locked. His classmates cornered him near the sink. Some did the deed with grim satisfaction, others barely went through the motions, clearly mortified, but almost all participated. There was no laughing, no joking. Only Alfies high-pitched yelps.

When everyone was done, Alfie sat on the floor, head in hands, his face streaming with tears, and covered in spit.

I looked around the silent classroom.

I dont know about you, but Im ashamedashamed for myself, for him, for all of us, I said.

Everyone stared at the floor.

Remember this day, I continued, quietly. Dont ever mistreat anyone again, not with words, not with actions. You know now how things can end if you let them go too far.

I unlocked the door, and Alfie stumbled out, a broken figure.

I wont tell you to keep this to yourselves, I whispered. Im sure you understand.

Alfie didnt come to school for the rest of the day, nor the next.

I called at his house, dreading the prospect of facing his mother, but she seemed oblivious.

Hes not himself, she said apologetically. Just cries all the time now, wont go to school.

May I talk to him? I asked.

She nodded, letting me inside.

Alfie dove under his blanket the moment he saw me.

I know it feels awful, Alfie, I said, gently laying a hand on his head. You must be scared everyone will laugh at you now.

No reaction.

But youre not a coward, are you? Maybe people will snicker, but they wont hurt you.

Silence.

Would you like to move to another class? Maybe the children there will enjoy being spat on.

Alfie shot up, eyes blazing, and shouted, Ill never spit again! Please dont move me!

Good. The children are worried about you, you know, missing school.

Alfie said nothing, hanging his head.

I ruffled his hair. All right, see you tomorrow, then.

See you, he echoed quietly.

When Alfie came back, everyone acted as if nothing had happened. No one ever spat in that class again.

As the years passed, the teachers often remarked how unusually close-knit that year group was.

Theyre like a family, those ones, one would say.

Or maybe theyre just sharing some terrible secret, another would joke.

Maybe they were right. I never saw my first class again, as I moved away to take a post in another city not long after.

Even now, many years later, I still remember that horrifying afternoon and feel a twist of guilt about it. I often wondered if in my desperation Id done more harm than good.

After hearing the whole story, a friend suggested I look up what happened to Alfie in later years, just for peace of mind.

Eventually I found out: when Alfie reached Year 6, his mother remarried. Her new husband, a retired army captain, insisted that Alfie attend a military academy and helped him get in. These days Alfie is in his mid-forties, serving as an officer. He keeps in touch with many old classmates and even visits our little town from time to time.

And at school reunions, no one brings up the story of Alfies changenot even as a joke. I suspect it may not be a matter of poor memory, but rather an unspoken agreement.

What did I learn? Sometimes, when all else fails, its easy to cross an ethical line, believing it will do good. But the mark it leaves, both on the children and on oneself, is not easily wiped away. Kindness is rarely wastedeven if it takes years to show its effect. I often wonder if a little more patience from me, or a little more warmth, might have made for a gentler lesson, for all of us.