When I am brushing my teeth and the phone calls come from colleagues telling me they are ill, all sense of purpose goes down the plughole. My day is about to become a battle to keep the school afloat. My priority will be to ensure effective provision for the children, to get a body in front of them for every lesson. Whatever has been planned, whatever the agenda that has been established, it all becomes subsumed by the need to keep the school operating.
I work in what is called a “high maintenance school”, which means that it can be hard going. We know this and have a reputation for supporting our staff in an imaginative way. But our teachers are old and every day the phone calls keep coming. Every day is damage limitation, and sometimes exercising our duty of care towards the staff can replace our duty of care to the children. So with some regret we will have to introduce a more rigorous absence policy. I have fought against it, but now feel that I have little alternative and have introduced return-to-work interviews and set targets for improving attendance.
Although our aging staff have a wealth of experience that makes them a valuable asset, their age brings with it a number of issues. We are all prone to illness as we get older, and my school is no exception. What makes it doubly difficult, though, is the feeling in the profession that the age of 50 has an almost mystical significance. It seems to bring with it an expectation that your career is drawing to an end and that someone, somewhere, should find you a way out.
Perhaps these teachers are just exhausted. Perhaps they ain’t got the poop no more. I understand, I do - I belong to the same age group. Of course it’s a difficult profession. Your sense of what you are can be trashed in an instant. But is it intrinsically harder than any other? I don’t think so.
People in other jobs expect to go on for much longer. Perhaps they shouldn’t. Perhaps everyone should retire at 50. But they don’t. And it is all well and good to complain and to bemoan your lot, but when stepping down means less money, then it is not quite so attractive a proposition. Is the job that bad? After all, what about the holidays? Can we honestly say we deserve these holidays more than anyone else? More than nurses? Or air traffic controllers? I can’t.
So let’s be thankful. Despite all the paper rubbish that surrounds us, it is still a people-oriented job. That’s what others envy about it. We deal with awkward and unpleasant people sometimes. But we also spend our days with the majority who are truly delightful. And the job is never mundane. You learn always to expect the unexpected. Sadly, though, for me that involves taking those early morning calls that stop people going on courses or exploiting a mutually supportive professional agenda, in order that the school runs.
The consequence is that those who do attend school regularly and without complaint find themselves under increasing pressure as the days roll on without a break, until they crack. That circle seems unbreakable, but until I find a way to break into it the tensions and irritations that simmer in the staffroom will eventually boil over.
As the staff ages, their sickness increases and their desire and their pride can diminish, until the nature of my job is fundamentally changed. It ceases to be about leadership and becomes merely management - and, whatever others think about deputy heads, there has to be more to the job than teaching for absent colleagues - I have covered nearly 80 lessons since the start of term. So after 10 years in my role I am now finally, regrettably, moving towards a more formal absence policy. I have to. I owe it to the children.
Geoff Brookes is deputy head of a Swansea comprehensive
