School’s out for summer. Time to travel, chillax and recharge the proverbial batteries. But the end of another year is always bittersweet for me. Alongside the exhaustion and euphoria, there’s also a little sadness as I wave off those who are leaving and say goodbye to my kids. And this was really brought into sharp focus when, on holiday at last, I finally put my feet up, switched on the telly and watched The History Boys for the first time ever.
My first brush with Alan Bennett’s award winning drama was back in 2007, when I interviewed David Starkey about his schooldays for the TES, and he made a passing reference to The History Boys. “I never had a Hector, ” the esteemed historian lamented. Naturally, I nodded knowingly and made all the right noises. No way did I let on that I hadn’t seen the play, and thus his allusion was totally wasted on me.
In fact, it took another six years before I accidentally stumbled across the film adaptation, when it cropped up on cable here in the US last week. So, as unofficially the last person on Earth to finally see it, I am surprised at how deeply my summer holiday viewing has affected me. But timing, as they say, is everything.
Even though I too was studying for A-levels in 1983, when The History Boys is set, I certainly can’t identify with any of Bennett’s teenage intellectuals. I was doing English and Needlework (don’t laugh) not History, and consequently had no aspirations for Oxbridge. My sixth-form in Luton was not a million miles from Watford Grammar, where the school scenes for the film were shot, but I spent free periods drooling over Duran Duran in Smash Hits, not swotting up on Stalin’s speeches in the library. Cramming never was my style.
And although I’m now a teacher myself, I cannot relate to Hector, Irwin or Miss Lintott either. Somehow, I just can’t see those three in our faculty lounge at lunchtime, re-heating the remains of last night’s take-out or discussing who got voted off American Idol. And as for their teaching styles? Well, lessons with my fourth graders (10 year-olds) rarely involve reference to John-Paul Sartre, Brief Encounter or subjunctive clauses. And while I certainly encourage hands-on learning, I’d never condone hands on testicles.
And yet I found myself teary-eyed in front of the telly as the credits began to roll. I felt compelled to instantly update my Facebook status with outpourings of praise for a play I’d unintentionally avoided for so many years. Yes, The History Boys moved me deeply, and all because it came at just the right time.
Of course, it is a poignant, witty commentary on British education, sexual tolerance and the nature of history itself, magnificently scripted and superbly acted. But it was the emotional ending that really got me. The fabulous Frances de la Tour leading the boys in the final scene as they recount the outcomes of their lives : the builder, the magistrate, the journalist, the lawyer. The one who pretends to be someone else, and the one who died at 28.
As I watched, my protective teacher instincts kicked in and I couldn’t help thinking of my own precious young pupils leaving fourth grade, with their dreams, hopes and aspirations for the future. What will become of these little ones as they move from innocence to experience to independence? What does fate have in store for them?
At the end of another year, we ritually pass on our cherished charges to the next teacher, next school or the big wide world. Whether they are fictional History Boys or real-life fourth graders, however we strive to guide, direct or counsel, ultimately their destinies are their own. And it can be heart wrenching to let them go. As watching The History Boys brought home to me, sometimes breaking up is hard to do.
Mary McCarney teaches at Atlanta International School, Georgia, USA
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