My teaching hero

He stands by the desk, the curved end of his spectacles lodged between his teeth, white hair piled high, wild like candyfloss. He looks like the archetypal mad scientist but Mr Beeley’s experiments are conducted in language. He spins words like gossamer webs to ensnare me. Gossamer he says is his favourite word and now it is in my repertoire.

He’s small, elfin even, though he has a look of Father Christmas or Father Time, a twinkle in his eye, a slight paunch overhanging the black leather belt holding beige slacks that cascade onto shiny black shoes.

He is surely past retirement age but he moves deftly like a dancer at the blackboard, removing his glasses from his teeth when he talks, pointing at his students, specs outstetched in excitement - you boy!

Today we are reading The Merchant of Venice. Mr Beeley has not heard of equal opportunities and he gestures towards me. ‘Brenda,’ he says. ‘You be Portia. I’ll be the merchant.’ I always read the part of the lead female. He always reads lead male. He has called me Brenda for the last two years but names are not important; I know I am his favourite. I revel in it, courting his favour. I pepper my essays with words like disingenuous, diaphonous, delectable, scouring the thesaurus for phrases to impress.

Later I will wait eagerly, heart a-flutter as he strides down the aisles, handing back our books: ecstatic when it’s nine and a half, satisfied with nine, dejected when it’s only an eight.

In their reports, the other teachers use words like contrary, opinionated, impudent. But to Mr Beelely I am perceptive, intuitive, gifted. In Mr Beeley’s lesson I am the heroine and he, this elfin man with the gossamer hair, is my hero.