1975 – I wondered where my cock-fight had gone!

     In my twenty-ninth year, I ran into an old school friend who remembered my admiration of Mr Ruddick, and he told me that he, Mr Ruddick, was now retired and lived close to his aunt in Shipcoat Terrace. Finally, and completely out of the blue, a great opportunity had just dropped into my lap. I remembered my hero well and was instantly excited at the prospect of meeting him again – but this time as an adult.

I tracked him down and, thirteen years since we last spoke, I found myself knocking on the door of a house that could well have been a set in 'Coronation Street'. The door opened and it was him! He was at home and the Gods were smiling!

I was taller and broader than him now. And, as he looked over his half-rimmed gold spectacles he spoke with a soft, pale pink, voice slowly saying "Douglas! (Other teachers called me Blanks) come in – come in". Entering the space that my hero inhabited I felt special and tried to take in the cosy, open-fired room.

Soon we were drinking tea together from delicate China cups - with him spilling out all the kind of stuff you're simply not privy to as a pupil. He talked of the scandals that went on involving different members of staff and a culture of cruelty that he would have no part of.

While we talked, I scanned his bookshelves for Raphael and the rest of the super-Gods of art he told us of. But... no books on art… or artists! However, there were lots of books on ships, aeroplanes, the war, and gardening. The only sign of his artistic side was two framed paintings that hung on different walls – his only paintings. One was of a Spanish galleon silhouetted against a red sunset and the other was an abstract of two cockerels fighting - nothing more than a riot of swirling colour really.

Now then, I could remember him asking for the Spanish Galleon but had wondered where my cock-fight picture had gone.

I discovered that George, as he asked me to call him, had been an officer in the army and that many people like him had, after the war, ended up being offered positions in teaching - although their talents may have lain in quite different areas.

Later, I realised that his greatest transferable skill was in motivating and inspiring people. And once again, there I was, captivated by his words and mesmerised by his thoughts as he talked, this time, about music. He loved The Eagles, insisting that I listened to them on his cassette tape recorder. He also persuaded me to give opera a chance to enter my life – recommending Puccini in particular.

My meeting with him had been momentous and thoroughly enjoyable. But most of all, I had discovered that my hero had no natural or creative skills towards art at all. He had been a Major in the army who had jumped at the offer of a teaching post. And it turned out his best skills didn't lie in killing folk but encouraging and inspiring others. Bringing out the best in people. So, three cheers for all the Mr Ruddicks of the world for their positive effect. The motivators.