Echoes

I walked out of the back door onto the tarmac playground, a covered area. I climbed the steps to the area known as the Middle Playground . I wended my way up the hill path to the field where I was to do a recess duty. The children were starting to make their way out after their morning classes. I heard the slamming of doors, the shouts and the running of feet, moments before I saw them. Gradually they made their way upwards. Soon a football game arose as if from nowhere; a spontaneous game of net less volleyball broke out amongst another group. I walked around the field. These were pupils in their early teens so there was little to do, they were playing contentedly.

After one of my circuits I paused at the corner of the field and noted the fence by the slope behind which were bushes and wild growth, an overgrown small square of flat land. I remembered that it used to house another small playground, poignantly no longer there.

Now as a teacher over three years into my retirement, it is very pleasant to be the occasional ‘teacher on call’. January has given me several days of coverage. I do enjoy seeing old friends and colleagues. It was always an open hearted and friendly place to work. That has not changed. The children too have all the energy and openness of youth. I am a lucky man.

Once upon a time on Friday lunchtimes, Dear Reader, I used to stand and lean on that fence which protected that now extinct little playground. Behind me a small group of wee takkers used to play on the swings and climbing apparatus which are no more. It was the easiest of supervisions.  It was always a very pleasant experience.  One could oversee the few children who preferred to play far from the madding crowd and one could also peer down on the play areas below. On a clear day the view over the Georgia Strait and Vancouver Island in the distance was a stunning panorama fit for a “Beautiful B.C.” magazine. The end of the working week was nigh and, like all journeys. a great part of the pleasure was in the anticipation of arrival.

On most Fridays, I shared the duty with my friend and colleague, David Hughes. There was never a need for two of us to be there so my memory plays tricks. I think that I enjoyed his company so much that when he came to relieve me, I simply stayed on to chat and banter.  David was a Welshman who greeted me on my first day at Collingwood School in September 1991. His father, Brian, was a professional footballer who had plied his trade in the North American Soccer League after a stellar career back in the old country.  David and his brother, John, were no mean footballers themselves. At the time he was a Grade V homeroom teacher whose outstanding teaching and mentorship made him much loved and respected by students, colleagues and parents. He was also a football coach par excellence. (I was not present when he called up young Griffin Reinhart to take the free kick which became the goal that won a championship. I can, however, imagine the shrewd professionalism he brought to that moment.)

There were many nights with David which were memorable for fun-filled bonhomie and several more which shall remain secreted in a cobwebbed corner of my mind, a vault to be opened only to a few. There is one such night which I will share, Dear Reader. Irene, David and I went for dinner and then on to see comedian, Billy Connolly, at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver. Talking to Hughesee in the staff room the following day, we were both suffering. Our jaws ached. We weren’t really sure why. It was, we came to believe, quite simply, because we had laughed and smiled for the best part of three hours on the previous evening. I thought again of that night on last Friday’s duty and rubbed my jaw as I looked  across to the spot where the playground on the hill used to be.

David left the junior school and went to the senior campus where he became a student counsellor. I once was talking to his close friend, Matthew, who had worked with him at both campuses. Matthew knew ‘Counsellor David’ as well as ‘Teacher David’. He explained to me that if I thought he was such a fantastic teacher then he had taken his abilities and skills to another even higher  level when he became a counsellor. David Hughes was present when a counselling room was named in his honour.

 In the 1990s David had expressed a wish to run the Victoria Marathon as the city had become his adopted hometown. I agreed to do it with him. On his first attempt he failed to complete the course, a heavy cold and flu causing him to achieve more than half but the finish line eluded him. So we agreed to have another crack at it the following year.  Another teacher, Holly, expressed a wish to join us. So often on the weekends we would train together. Although, Dear Reader, that is not entirely true. Holly would begin the training run with us but would soon disappear into the distance not to be seen again until the following weekend! David completed his Victoria Marathon at his second attempt.

So being back in the school from which I retired , seeing again familiar places and faces, and seeing the changes which time has wrought, there was a steady stream of stimulation throughout my day. Therefore it was only a fleeting echo, a noiseless nudge from the past as I skirted the deserted spot which housed so many pleasant memories.

David Hughes is no longer with us. Years of battling cancer sadly claimed him far too soon, a life too short. It brought me up short that there are so many new people at Collingwood School who do not know of David Hughes, an iconic personality who did so much good in his life. Then I shook my head because there are still so many Collingwood alumni and staff, who are leading productive, busy lives and will remember him. They too may have a David Hughes story to tell. They will not be who they are today exclusively because of that one man, of course not, but they will recognise that he may have picked them up when they were down; that the advice he gave was unfailingly good sense; that in the face of the tragedies that are a part of life, he was there for them.

So, one of the echoes of my recent Friday in school was of a Welshman with a Canadian accent, an infectious laugh and a devil- may-care attitude, a big heart and the daily habit of making the world a better place.  For me he was ‘an ancient, trusty, droughty crony’ whom I miss greatly.