The Boss

Mr L C Henry was my boss for a while.

He was always Mr Henry in school, and even those few who called him Chuck only used that name in private. In the staffroom he was always Mr Henry or The Boss (pre-Springsteen).

Chuck was a tiny undersized guy whose office door was for some reason massively over-sized. When he swung  the door open you were momentarily tempted to ask if his dad was in. But you would have needed a hangar to house his spirit.

Chuck was really very small, and had a slight hunch on his back. A colleague and friend who used to regularly get a lift with Chuck, often joked that he would stand around waiting for the Marina that arrived without a driver, and know that Chuck had come.

Chuck always wore a suit, but invariably looked slightly dishevelled. He gave the impression that his clothes had put up a terrific struggle before he had finally subdued them. He was always irregularly shaved, as if he had been in the dark with a blunt razor and no mirror. He had a gruff voice, which he never raised. Children and adults alike knew that he wanted quiet and were keen to oblige. He may have been small, but he had the pugnacious stance of a bulldog. He didn't need to bark. You could see that he meant business.

He had a very sharp intellect indeed, and did not suffer foools gladly. Not even ungladly. You didn't put anything past Chuck. His handwriting, however, was indeciperable and struggled across the page as if drugged. I still have the notes he gave us during a pep-talk on Presentation. The handwriting appears to have been written with a banana as guide, and peters out at the end of each line as if exhausted. If he had meant it as a sort of post-modern irony, he did not let on.

He ran a fantastic school. Teachers were able to be themselves, to play to their strengths, and to develop their skills. You knew where you stood with Chuck. If he thought you had got something wrong, he told you straight. He didn't gush with praise, but he showed his approval in encouragement. If you were prepared to work hard, Chuck would be behind you. He thought that headteachers should help their teachers by getting rid of things that got in the way, and he would fund new thinking generously, while looking out for problems that he could toss aside on your behalf. If you could think it, Chuck would help you do it, as long as he could see that the kids would benefit.

He could have a been a businessman, like his brother. He has a talent for raising money and turning a profit. From tuck shop to collecting newspaper, there were a zillion schemes for increasing funding, and his was one of the first schools to have a computer in every classroom, rather than merely one sad BBC B parked in the hall under a budgie cover. And he funded more table tennis equipment than could reasonably be expected, and weekends away with the kids at sports camps in Derbyshire.

He charmed the birds out of the trees. People seemed unable to resist the urge to give up their time and expertise for free when Chuck needed it.

Teaching styles in his school were varied, and teachers' very different personalities were given full rein. This was a vital lesson for me: it became clear that good teaching might look bizarrely varied, but what mattered was the result. My way wasn't the only way, and teachers there were achieving great results from the kids through a rich diversity of routes. 

Teachers wanted to work hard for Chuck. Those who didn't like table tennis might be irritated by the endless noise of bouncing balls wherever there was space to put up a table, but we were all, without exception, keen to make that school fly. And it did. Those were the happiest and most productive years of my career, and my learning curve was steep enough to loop the loop and then some.

Perhaps because Chuck  was happy to let his teachers be individuals - even eccentrically so - we in turn respected the children's individuality and rejoiced in it. There was no room for homogenised conformity. Chuck wanted us all to be tall poppies, children and teachers alike.

When the school was praised, Chuck always made himself scarce. He made clear that any success of the school was due to the teachers. He tried to become invisible if anyone got gushing about the place. He also hid when it was time for the school photograph. He hated having his photo taken and I do not think I ever saw a picture of him.

When I moved from headship to an adviser's job, Chuck wrote me a warm and generous reference I would be embarrassed to put up here. I treasure it still. I treasure him still.

Chuck did not like the idea of dying, but retired too late, when he was already ill. Visiting him at his home for the last time, I came away and rang a couple of people I knew would want to see him, both headteachers, and all three of us grateful to the part Chuck had played in our lives.

At his funeral, the place was packed, just bursting with people. I sat on steps at the back of an aisle, and felt lucky to have squeezed in at all. The vast and unexpected crowd was a profoundly moving tribute to a man who was well-respected professionally, and well-loved personally.

It was the loss of a colleague and friend, but felt like the loss of a father.